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Eyes bleary, cheeks sallow, nose red, stuffed up, temperature elevated, energy gone. Sick. So, I’m at home today. Struck down with one of those flue bugs that are often rife in enclosed, air-conditioned office spaces.
While I’m alone, I’ve decided to tap away at my key-pad and see what pours from my fevered brain.

fleur
It’s only now, when I look back and recall the little instances; the at the time un-noticed tableaus that demonstrate that we as a species, are irrevocably and irresistibly creatures who, despite the trappings of civilization and higher education are at heart slaves, on some eternal sexual wheel of discovery.

My puritanical parents, although staunchly Roman Catholic, sent me to an all girls school, viewing the local comprehensive as a breeding ground for un-married mothers, juvenile delinquents, future pimps and pushers, communist sympathisers and worst of all, labour voters.

On my first day I found snobs, sniffers, snorters, smokers, bitches and worst of all giggling simpletons, with no understanding and a complete indifference to the political process; which, in its way, labels me as a kind of a snob.

It was at this school where, as well as those lessons intended to get us into the best universities, we learnt how to most effectively look down on those who were deemed beneath us. Money and the professional standing of our parents, especially our fathers, was the currency that had eased our passage into that rarefied atmosphere; where we would aspire to remain for the remainder of our lives. Barring bankruptsy, scandal or bubonic plague.
Thanks Mum and dad.

Here too I learnt such words as; ass-fucker, finger-banging, butt-plugging, cunt, cock, pussy, blow-job, rug-munching and muff-diving. I also learnt to snort coke, smoke a spliff, roll a joint and tell good shit from bad. The same education I might have had at the local halls of learning, but for much less money.

We had all looked on with envy that summer at the beginning of our third year, when the first girl, a buxom wench with flaming red hair and a wide nose had come back from recess with a pair of melons of considerable size pushing out her blouse, and Jaylo-esque rounded buttocks fighting for room in her new gym skirt. The rest of us were still hiding chest pimples under our vests and skinny, bony asses in our shorts. And what was more shocking, this forward madam was modelling this season’s must have, new fashion – a wiry thatch of red, curly pubic hair.

There were gasps as she walked naked and proud, toward the shower. Other girls made room for the blessed one. Surreptitiously we watched her lath herself, seeming to linger between her legs, her fingers straightening the ginger tendrils. There was smile on her face; she was the centre of attention, the undoubted leader.

Over the next few months first one girl, then another dropped her knickers to the floor so that we could view the fledgling strands of blonde, brown, orange or black bush. Suddenly there were two separate and distinct groups; like being in a club; hairy coots in, bald eagles out.

Summer wore into winter and my weakly inspection of my crevice left me feeling deflated and un-womanly, as one by one the sad coven of bald eagles diminished and the prestigious coots were swelled by one more owner of a hair festooned crotch.

I almost fell of the toilet seat the day I saw that my naked girlie-bits had finally sprouted a few wispy tendrils of dark hair. It was a matter of pride, because it meant that I was no longer among the batch of bald virgins who where objects of pity when the clothes came off and the knickers shed. As the months passed my crotch took on the semblance of a badly made birds nest.

Hell, there goes the phone……….
………..I hate fucking cold callers. Especially when they can’t even bother to get your name right. I don’t know where they get their information, but I’ve never had an accident.

Months later, back in the shower room, where almost everything of importance seemed to happen, our esteemed leader stripped off and did a slow twirl unfurling the new style; a neatly cropped bush that showed off the large pouting, saddle-bag lips of her pink vagina.
There were nods of appreciation and respect. Over-night a bushy bush had become an unsightly out-crop, and we all knew that in order to stay in the club, the fur was going to have to fly. And in the early evening quiet, half naked girls straddled toilet bowls, and there was the unmistakable sound of nail scissors hacking through bushy undergrowth.

There was I recall, one rebel who refused to follow the herd. She looked on with haughty disdain as we followed the prevailing trend like sheep, refusing to take the sheers to her more than averagely thick black nest.  But her father was a musician, and her mother some sort of artist, so hedonism ran in her blood, we all decided.

It went around that half way through university she dropped out. I had the feeling that she either became a nun or joined a commune. But it’s probably not that romantic. She probably got knocked up and went off to have her baby or an abortion. But that’s all just conjecture.

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